The Underhanded Literary Agent
by HarmonyMarguerite
Summary: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is sick and tired of dealing with the deranged Holmes fans, so he rewrites one of Watson's manuscripts to kill him off. Holmes and Watson do not find out until the book is published. THEY ARE INDIGNANT. Hints of slash.


**Title:** The Underhanded Literary Agent

**Author:** HarmonyMarguerite

**Fandom:** Sherlock Holmes

**Pairing:** Holmes/Watson

**Summary:** Based on a prompt: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is sick and tired of dealing with the deranged Holmes fans, so he rewrites one of Watson's manuscripts to kill him off. Holmes and Watson do not find out until the book is published. THEY ARE INDIGNANT.

* * *

It seemed a quiet winter Saturday, all of London slowly going about their final Christmas preparations, and a peaceful silence even seemed to settle at 221B Baker Street.

Until a high pitched shrieked, "WATSON!" shattered the silence.

Downstairs, a crash of dishes followed, while Watson almost spat out his tea and had to hastily put down his cup. It was just in time, as Holmes burst through the sitting room door, brandishing a newspaper.

"Watson, how could you!" He cried.

"What are you on about now?"

The paper was slammed down in front of him, and an agile finger pointed to an article. "This!"

A brief glance down at the first paragraph, and Watson turned his attention to his agitated roommate. "It's my latest story, I shall assume you have some literary critique for me?"

"You could say that."

"Can we skip it this time? I've heard it all before, but readers today want romanticism in their stories, I'm sorry but-"

"Watson!"

"What?"

"The ending, if you please?"

Grumbling, Watson skipped to the final few paragraphs, and skimmed the end. Then, blinking a few times as if not believing his eyes, slowly read it again.

"Wha- what is this?"

"I was hoping you could answer that."

"You… you die in this."

Holmes began pacing. "You always have such a wonderful grasp of the obvious Watson. Yes, apparently, I died. I am a walking ghost. I'm surprised our last client didn't faint at the sight of me, spectral visage that I am. How could you, dearest Watson, stand to be in the same room as me? Aren't you frightened that I'll molest you in your sleep like any self respecting poltergeist?"

"You do that anyway."

"How can a ghost solve cases? How can clients trust someone they can't see? Can you see me Watson? Are you listening?"

"Did you take more cocaine than usual this morning?"

"What were you thinking?" It was an interesting phenomena, listening to Holmes' voice get slowly higher with each sentence. "Do you know what this means? My career might now be in ruins!"

"I'm sure there's something we could do…"

"You killed me! Killed me dead! How could you? I thought we were friends."

"We are friends."

"Friends don't kill their friends off in books, Watson… It's not even acceptable in real life."

"Are you… pouting?"

"No! I'm… I'm indignant!"

"Oh… It just… looks like pouting from here."

"Watson," Holmes leaned forward at the waist, settling his face inches from Watson's own. "You're missing the point."

"No, I got it. Would you like me to explain?"

Holmes finally straightened and flopped on the settee. "I wish you would."

"I didn't write that ending."

There was silence. Blessed, peaceful silence. Then, a quiet and slightly deadly sounding, "What?"

"I didn't write that. What I wrote was exactly what happened: you fought Moriarty and returned triumphant. Mr. Doyle probably changed the ending."

Holmes looked between the paper and Watson's face, a slightly confused expression passing over his features. "But… why?"

"Probably because he thinks you're insane."

"Why would he think that?"

"Because you ARE. You're a fucking loon who drags us all over London so we can lay in gutters to tie up 'loose threads', you poison the dog every three days, you drive poor Mrs. Hudson out of her skin with terror, and you keep ruining my good clothes! You seem to be in a constant contest to drive me up the wall!"

"Are you complaining?"

"I never complain!"

"It sounds like complaining. You keep saying you never complain, but recently it seems all I've heard from you is complaints about this, how awful that is… No wonder you killed me off."

"I didn't kill you off!"

"Can you get him to… fix it?"

Watson sighed and placed a hand on his temple, only partly to stem the incoming headache. "I don't think so… not right away, at least. In a couple months, I'll write a story bringing you back."

"And find a new agent."

"And I'll find a new agent."

For a few moments, the room was silent, allowing Watson to really read the changed ending of his story, now titled 'The Final Problem'.

"Watson?"

"Hmm?"

"Do I really drive you that crazy?"

With a sigh, Watson got up and resettled himself next to Holmes. "Everything that drives me crazy about you, is everything I love."

A ghost of a smile caught Holmes' lips as he leaned sideways and rested his head on Watson's shoulder. "Likewise, my dear."

"I have an idea."

"Hmm?"

"Let's write to Mr. Doyle."

"Watson, I do love the way your mind works sometimes."


End file.
